


Armistice

by taekaneru



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Boxing, First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 02:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17092181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taekaneru/pseuds/taekaneru
Summary: It had not been only during the last pub brawl that Geralt did not manage to avoid – or rather, that he did not care to avoid – that he was reminded once again how stodgy and trite most people looking for an argument used to be. Especially considering their skill in fighting.Or:Geralt and Roche have a little… tête-à-tête.





	Armistice

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Choice Made](https://archiveofourown.org/works/493305) by [Charlievh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlievh/pseuds/Charlievh). 



> Here’s to the fandom, here’s to the handsome mofo that’s Vernon Roche.

It had not been only during the last pub brawl that Geralt did not manage to avoid – or rather, that he did not care to avoid – that he was reminded once again how stodgy and trite most people looking for an argument used to be. Especially considering their skill in fighting. Normally, Geralt enjoyed the one or other physical challenge, for a change. But after the last tiresome contract he’d had taken to fulfil by slaying a chort out in the forests, taking far longer than anticipated to slice the beast to pieces, he wished he’d just ignored the sucker who had stolen his last beer.

Dodging a left hook that had had a long time coming - the wind up which he had anticipated the moment the poor fool lifted his arm - he turned right and plunged below the man’s arm. Next, he swung his left elbow up and crushed down onto a jugal bone (or maybe an orbital cavity), and with a howl the man went down. Geralt managed to spectacularly rescue his tankard from the man’s grip and, with a sigh, sat down again.

He took a long swig of his reclaimed beer and tried to remember the last time fighting with his bare fists had been fun.

_And here we are… already pondering the good, old times, as if there had been so many. But I have to admit, that one duel had been quite a worthy fight. He is always worth a fight. I wonder, if he still sits and broods in that ridiculous hideout of his? Vernon Roche…_

Quietly allowing himself a private smile, Geralt reminded himself that the Blue Stripes had been a lot more interesting fight mates, not even mentioning the force that Vernon Roche was. He had challenged his men initially to just offer his advice on their moves and techniques and had then taken a good beating by the commander of the Temerian Special Forces themselves. Since then, he’d not been that entertained by any a brawl again. Roche had been fighting with speed, strength and wit, and did not hesitate to get himself bruised. No such competitor available since that, which was the reason he usually avoided those disputes nowadays. Although he’d spent a lot of his time on more familiar opponents, like those tedious monsters and other creatures.

With another grave exhale, Geralt finished his beer and stood. He placed a few crowns on the counter and went outside into the fresh winter air. Looking towards the sky and orienting himself with the help of the clear stars on the firmament, he decided to fetch his mare and ride up north for a while, until he was able to leave the forests behind, reaching the next settlement hopefully before sun dawned.

He went up the small alley beside the inn to get to his horse in the back yard and had just rounded the corner to the entrance of the stables, when he collided heavily with a tall, solid figure. He’d barely prepared to spit an exasperated insult, when – 

“What the hell are you – _Geralt_?” 

“ _Roche_ …?” Geralt sputtered; only now having swallowed his insult and regarding the man standing, first astonished, then smug, in front of him. Roche was in his usual uniform and armor, complete with his Falchion on the side, crossbow at the back and medallion gleaming on his chest. 

_Vernon Roche. That’s a surprise. Glad to see you again so soon._

“You, here?” Geralt recovered quickly, smirking. “Just thought of your whereabouts. That cave of yours becoming too small for your ego?”

He pulled Roche by his outstretched hand and into a big hug. 

“Ha, and you loitering around the dens of iniquity as usual?”

He hugged Geralt back and slapped his hands briefly onto the other’s back.

Geralt loosened from the Temerian. “Was about to make off, actually,” he retorted. “Where’re you heading to?”

“I just got back from a meeting with an intelligence officer; had to meddle a few things at court. Now that I can forget this ploughing paperwork being settled, I need a beer,” Roche sighed. “Ves and my men remained at our hideout, didn’t want to bother them with that crap.”

“I think I might reconsider calling it a night. If you’d have me?” Geralt quipped.

“You know the answer to that,” Roche retorted, shoving Geralt back towards the inn.

Geralt laughed. “Also, be warned. I may not have left the best impression in there.”

Roche raised an eyebrow, questioning.

“Some poor sod took the wrong tankard. I let my fist settle the problem when he did not seem to fathom…” Geralt replied with a shake of his head. 

“No problem. I think I know who to side with already,” Roche grumbled.

Both men entered the inn together and went to sit at a table near the counter, once they got their beverages. The drunkard who had started the brawl earlier was seated amongst his friends in a far corner of the inn, looking busy nursing the bruises and cuts on his face.

“So,” Geralt started, raising his tankard towards Roche, who clinked glasses, “to comradery and a night worth remembering!”

“To Temeria!” Roche added, taking a large swig of his beer.

Hiding his grin behind the glass, Geralt watched Roche. He looked fit, healthy, albeit a little worn out; or so the dark shadows below his eyes appeared to suggest. He was leaning on the table heavily, though his posture conveyed he still was keeping track of everything going on in the room.

_Always on guard. Still on the run then. No wonder he’s stressed out._

“That bad lot in the back those you beat up? Seems like he’ll have quite a blast trying not to spill his beer with that broken face of his”, Roche commented. He let his gaze travel through the room once, then settling on Geralt’s face again. “Doesn’t seem like _you_ are the one that left the bad impression.”

Geralt grimaced. “Yeah, was obvious he had no real chance.”

The two men raised their glasses once more and locked eyes. They still held the other’s stare while drinking. With a huff, Roche broke the contact and drained his beer. With a turn of his head, catching the sight of the innkeeper, he nodded and got another.

“However, Geralt, I’m surprised I’m meeting you here. Shouldn’t you be following whatever contract south in the mire? I heard there were some unidentified sightings of creatures which plagued the whole region. Sounded like they could need a Witcher.”

Geralt sighed. He had just put his tankard down to dive into a lengthy explanation of the last few days and his stressful confrontations, before he’d no doubt go over to the planned journey ahead, when he was interrupted by a harsh sneering voice.

“Even came back, wanting to collect your payback for smashing up Henry?”

Geralt, already slightly annoyed at being interrupted, looked at the red-faced man sputtering with heaving chest. He might recognize him as one of the lads hanging by the sod - who was still whining over his broken cheek in the back-, but he hardly had the nerve to act on the provocation again.

He shot a tired glance to Roche, rolling his eyes while ignoring the drunkard.

“I don’t think so”, Roche intervened out of nowhere, “maybe you harbor the wish of joining _poor Henry_ in crying over his scratches?”

“You arrogant fuck, shut up,” the man hissed angrily.

Roche looked at his beer, considering finishing it in one go, and then looked to Geralt still staring at the ceiling, visibly containing himself to not care.

Abruptly, Roche stood, and with a sharp turn to the left ploughed the handle of his sword under the man’s chin with a sickening crunch. The man wailed, one hand shooting up to hold his jaw, the other punching through the air and missing Roche’s face by a good few inches. Roche ducked succinctly, and then brought two quick hooks, one to the liver, the last in the chest directly below the solar plexus. The man went down with a breathless gasp and stayed put on the wooden floor.

Geralt leaned to the right, casting a short glance at the unconscious man and then at Roche. The Temerian took two deep breaths, straightened his gambeson and lowered himself down onto the bench again. 

“That was neat,” Geralt appreciated, toasting to Roche who only smirked in reply. “Thank you. Really couldn’t be bothered.”

“Thought so. Lazy arse,” Roche cackled.

Geralt snorted. “ _Actually_ tho’, I think I _can_ be bothered. Still, takes the right one to ask, or should I say, the one worthy breaking a sweat.” He regarded Roche challengingly, leaning forward onto the table between them. “When I got into that brawl previously, I’d just thought about the time I beat you up near that Kaedweni camp; was a nice little fight. Although, if I remember correctly, that was in fact over far too quickly. Thought you’d have put up better…”

Geralt had issued the last part with an exaggeratedly bored look, even considering so much as badly pretending a yawn, when Roche reached over the table and seized his left shoulder.

The commander gave a clipped laugh. “One might think you knew better than to sign me off so quickly now. You haven’t been the only one who’d had time to hone his skills over the last months,” Roche said and regarded Geralt intently. “I take it you want to challenge me to a little one-on-one?”

Geralt, still leaning forward, found himself at once very determined and suddenly excited at the prospect of exerting himself in this fight again. He felt the rush of adrenalin settle heavily in his guts.

“Finish that up,” Geralt pointed at Roche’s beer. “I think we are needed outside _just this moment_.”

Roche smirked, and when he had tossed a half handful of crowns on the table, followed Geralt into the cold night air.

Outside, Roche readjusted the leather belts which were holding his sword and crossbow. He stretched his neck, shoulders, and arms briefly, while Geralt just stood in front of him, hands already raised, and fists clenched. Roche copied his posture, rolling his shoulders forward and, taking in the situation, shifted slightly. 

“Okay. Want to freeze on your feet?” With a nod to Geralt, he indicated a quick jab in the direction of Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt’s smirk turned into a full-on grin as he struck the first real jab, starting with his left and holding cover with it as he pulled a quick right hook. Roche took a short step back, dodged both and came back directly with a series of left-right-left-upper-hook, which Geralt blocked with his forearms. Geralt then fixed his gaze on Roche’s collar to anticipate his movements at the first twitch of his shoulder muscles and blocked a right jab. Countering directly, he landed a first blow to the right shoulder of the Temerian. 

He tried to step in quickly to prepare a right kick onto the man’s thigh and a left hook to his jaw, when Roche evaded both and, grabbing Geralt’s left wrist, turned and rammed his elbow into the arch of the Witcher’s ribs.

“Ouh,” Geralt exhaled, “that was mean.” He took two quick steps to the right when he escaped Roche’s firm grip. 

Roche grinned. “Told you,” he huffed, holding up his cover once again.

Geralt pulled level, circling the other and turning with him slowly. He concentrated on Roche’s breathing and on the blood rushing through his own ears. He tried to block everything else out, the alley, the building next to them, the cold breeze, and the frozen ground under their feet. He opened his eyes again, fixating on Roche’s face and then down to his clavicle, where the gap of the bones was just about visible between the ends of the man’s open collar.

_I can see his blood pounding…_

There was no possibility of further observation, as Roche chose that precise moment to attack anew, involving the Witcher in trading jabs and hooks, landing kicks and revolving around each other.

Roche proved to be more agile than Geralt remembered; he hoped he did not look too bad himself. They worked each other up into a sweat pretty fast, as Roche decided to keep up his break-neck tempo. As Roche landed a few more precise hits, Geralt himself also counted some rather bruising hits, even splitting Roche’s right eyebrow with a particularly sharp punch of his fist.

The blood trickled slowly down the side of Roche’s face, his shoulders heaving and the humidity of their breath condensing and wafting in the winter air.

“Still want to challenge me?” Roche smirked, stepping in towards Geralt, blocking his left jab and shoving him harshly backwards with a precisely placed kick in the stomach. Absorbing the energy of the shock, Geralt staggered a few steps, but did not back down.

“Always cheeky, Vernon Roche. Seems I have to kick it out of you”, Geralt drawled, standing upright and, with lowered head, releasing a rapid succession of jabs and hooks. Roche parried some of them, but when Geralt took hold of his body in a sudden movement to block the Temerian’s arms, he had no choice but to be shoved roughly against the wall of the building next to them.

Geralt locked Roche’s arms to the man’s body, holding the commander to the wall by pressing all of his bodyweight against him.

_So, this is where you lose. Again. Got you._

Geralt breathed rapidly, looking down at Roche’s chest and then up to his face. They were very close. Roche was equally exhausted, his breathing strained and his heart thudding loudly against the Witcher’s chest. 

“I think we have a draw,” Roche offered with a gulp of air, “I take it you’ve had enough?”

Geralt huffed, grinning, and seemed to not be able to break the eye contact.

“Consider me convinced on your improved skills,” he admitted, “that first elbow of yours into my side already hurts like hell.” He laughed breathlessly.

Roche’s brown-eyed gaze seemed to bore into the Witcher’s golden eyes. All of a sudden, a heavy silence stretched between them. Roche was still pressed firmly between Geralt and the rough plaster of the building, every breath they took was tangible between their heaving bodies; the air shared in the short distance of their faces in smoky white clouds of hot exhalations.

Geralt noticed their closeness at once but could not bring himself to move even an inch. He consciously realized Roche’s accelerated heartbeat and caught his own heart speeding up with a particularly strong palpitation.

 _When have his eyes become so… intriguing? Since when can’t I look away anymore…?_  


Geralt suddenly felt lightheaded, his head swimming a little. Was this his body reacting to the adrenalin of the fight? But, normally, he was used to the increased awareness of his senses in such situations. Or was it because of the closeness they were experiencing? Geralt still wondered as his gaze slid down from Roche’s eyes to his mouth. His arms slid by some foreign impulse towards the man’s shoulders, his left hand finding its way to his neck. Absentmindedly, his fingers started to stroke the nape of Roche’s neck, brushing the tips of his fingers against the soft, hot skin there.

Roche was still fixed to Geralt’s body, still not making any attempt to break from the confined situation.

Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes.

Geralt noticed Roche’s breathing getting slower, but also heavier. As he realized he was actually stroking the man’s neck, he knew this was likely already considered too much in the general code of conduct between partners in crime or friends. Geralt was abruptly, lucidly, very aware that this was definitely not appropriate. 

_But gods, I cannot stop…_

His mind felt fogged up, like wading through thick mire.

When Roche’s arms slowly creeped up to hold lightly, oh so lightly, onto the Witcher’s waist, something in Geralt’s head sparked brightly. With a determined smirk, his eyes traveled to Roche’s again.

“You know,” Geralt whispered,” might seem absurd, but I always wondered what the skin on the back of your neck would feel like… and how your hair might feel if I slid my fingers though. I think I’ve never seen you without that hat.” He pushed his fingers lightly below the seam of that ever-present chaperon.

Roche suppressed a shiver as Geralt’s fingertips first stroked lightly over the close-shorn hair at his nape, then growing bolder when they ruffled upwards to fully slip under the chaperon to grip the short light brown strands on top of his head. He tilted his head to the side and with a half twist, Geralt was able to rid the man of his headgear finally.

Roche huffed quietly, seemingly not caring about this breech of conformity in every sense of the word and craned his head back.

“I never imagined that _this_ was a craving of yours. Is your curiosity now satisfied?” he challenged.

“Hmm, one could say so,” Geralt teased, stroking gently back down his neck.

“As you already mentioned,” Roche deadpanned, “this _definitely_ seems absurd.” 

Geralt halted his movements shortly. “I _can_ stop, if you want…” he murmured in the space of their faces, entranced, looking deeply into Roche’s eyes.

Roche shivered again. “I… did not mean that you should.”

Geralt grinned. “Still, there is one more thing I’d like to know…”

Roche just raised his split eyebrow with a small wince. 

Geralt stroked down Roche's nape again and then shifted his hand so that his thumb pressed lightly on the edge of the Temerian’s jaw, fixating it in a way. He knew now exactly where this would lead and that this was something he’d craved, not only earlier, but even longer. When he’d thought back to their first fistfight, it had not only been the match that he had been impressed with. The commander himself had been the major reason for the challenge being such an entertaining waste of spare time. He’d desired not only the physical closeness for the purpose of exerting his muscles, but also because he’d felt drawn to the man himself. To his body, _and_ his mind.

The Witcher looked in Roche’s slightly widened eyes, wider than normal, pupils almost melded into the brown and wondered what Roche might see in his eyes in this very moment, when his gaze slid down again to his mouth.

When the Witcher spoke at last, his deep timbre sounded slightly hoarse and breathless.

“Roche … I want to know how you taste.”

Roche drew a shaky breath. He could feel the warmth radiating off Geralt and decided to finally release the tension which had built to an almost unbearable height and closed the distance between them.

Roche's lips were a soft press against Geralt’s, and with a heartfelt groan, Geralt pulled Roche in closer. The other slid his arms firmly around the Witcher’s waist; bruises of their prior match tingling lightly were almost forgotten.

Roche inhaled deeply, tilted his face to the right when Geralt opened his mouth, their tongues meeting with a helpless gasp. As Geralt let his other arm pull Roche away from the wall to hold him to himself, still caressing the neck of the other, Roche followed willingly. Their mouths separated with a soft hiss, just until Roche leaned in again heavily and their lips found each other as if this was something they had been doing for a long time already.

Roche pressed soft kisses from Geralt’s mouth to his jaw. “I never thought you would…”

Geralt interrupted him with another kiss, nudging his face up again, tongue delving in deep to slide wetly against Roche’s. His other hand meanwhile located at the Temerian’s hip to hold him fast, pressing the man’s weight fully onto him.

Geralt paused shortly. He licked his lips, considering. “Ah… I hope you don’t mind?”

“No…not in the least,” Roche replied with hazy eyes.

He leaned in and softly pulled Geralt’s lower lip between his teeth, then licked over the bite, only to be rewarded with a quiet moan. As Geralt grabbed onto Roches neck firmly, his hand sliding lower and his thumb pressing in between his clavicles, Roche trembled, and his lips moved smoothly to the Witcher’s delicate skin below his ear.

Geralt swore, offering his throat to Roche only to pull him over the next moment to kiss the man breathless. Roches vision swam, a hot spark sizzling down his spine when their tongues touched anew. He tried to fuse himself more onto Geralt, but it was not enough. His hands were ravaging over the Witcher’s flanks and his shoulders.

“Honestly, should have torn that damn chaperon off your head long time ago,” Geralt murmured, “if I’d known you’re so damn handsome without.”

Roche chuckled. Geralt kissed the Temerian hungrily, licking into his mouth and breathing hotly into the air in their small space. The warmth they were creating radiated off both, and Geralt found the intense feeling of Roche kissing him to quickly being not enough anymore.

He felt the strong, wiry body of the Temerian against his, his need to fuse himself into the other becoming harder to quell by the second. Roche’s hands slid down from his shoulders to his hips, grazing dangerously low at his waistband before finding a way between the layers of his armor and clothes and touching the feverish skin beneath.

_Roche… oh, gods…_

“Geralt,” Roche panted, “if… ah, if you’re amenable I’d suggest finding some place less… public.”

“Yes, very much so,” Geralt rasped, tugging Roche further into the alley, but kept him still pressed against himself. He leaned in and kissed Roche’s neck, where he let his teeth graze the hot skin, inhaled deeply to smell the scent of pine and warm skin and released him with a bite.

“And I know just the place. Follow me.”

Roche did not hesitate, although he had quite some trouble detaching himself from the Witcher’s grasp.

Geralt regarded him with a determined glance and then proceeded up the alley to round the corner to the back yard. There was a small wooden door which appeared to be the entrance to the inn’s guest rooms.

Briefly turning to the left, Geralt opened a door to find a small cabinet on the wall. He fiddled with the lock, until it opened a few seconds later with a definite click. A collection of keys appeared, and the Witcher chose one of the upper most rows. Roche watched Geralt with wary eyes, arms crossed before his chest, but there was something about his posture that suggested he was eager to proceed.

“There we are,” Geralt issued, “this should be enough.” He took the key and both men went up the stairs, checking the room numbers until they got a match with the number engraved on the key. With a turn of the key and a creak the door opened to a small room with a neat bed, a desk and a closet on the opposing wall next to the window. 

Roche entered after Geralt, closing the door with a quiet thud. He leaned against it, seemingly pondering the situation between them.

Geralt turned back, loosening the shoulder belt which held his swords and the one fixating the bags at his waist. His eyes traveled from the feet up towards the head of the Temerian, focusing on his light brown hair he would possibly never get used to seeing.

Roche, who had taken his chaperon, as well as his Falchion and crossbow, with him, laid them down on the table beside the bed. He straightened his back, holding himself slightly more upright than he usually did.

Geralt growled, taking the few steps towards the other man, reaching out to him and letting his hands secure Roche’s hips in a firm grip.

“No second thoughts, I hope?” he inquired.

Roche smirked, “No, now that we crossed that line…”

He leaned fully into the embrace, bringing his lips up to the Witcher’s neck and latching onto the soft skin there. Immediately he was rewarded with a silent moan, kissing over the pulse point and sliding his tongue over it, licking up to the Witcher’s jaw.

“Let’s get this damn thing off,” Roche proposed, tugging on Geralt’s shirt below the firm plates of his chainmail armor. 

“Nothing easier than that”, Geralt replied, but struggled to distance himself enough from the embrace to shed first the steel shirt and then his undershirts, with the help of the other man. Geralt then proceeded to feebly pull at Roche’s gambeson, detaching the belt around it, loosening the red cord holding the garment together and pulling it over his shoulders and off, then letting his shirt and undershirt follow until their bare chests finally touched. 

Roche's fingers roamed over Geralt’s pectorals towards his abdomen, feeling the scarred skin to be surprisingly soft under his fingertips. He leaned in again to kiss the Witcher, opening his mouth with his tongue and licking onto his palate, kissing open mouthed, breath accelerating when passion overtook, and they lost themselves in each other.

Geralt’s hands roved Roche’s back freely and liberally, stroking down to the waistband and teasing the skin underneath.

“Geralt…,” Roche gasped, trembling and scattering kisses over the Witcher’s neck and chest. Bending down a bit, he licked over a nipple and grazed it with his teeth.

“Ah, Roche…”

“You are so sensitive,” Roche gasped, overwhelmed by what these simple touches were doing to him.

Geralt’s hands went down swiftly, clutching firmly onto Roche’s arse, pulling the man up so that his hips aligned with his. A shudder wracked Roche’s body and he whimpered quietly, the Witcher now feeling evidence that he was not the only one affected strongly by their encounter.

“Look who’s talking… if I’d known you to be amenable to this, I’d made my move earlier,” Geralt rasped.

Roche shifted his gaze up to look at Geralt, with his disheveled hair, flushed cheeks and breathing rather heavily, only laughing quietly. The Witcher heard his blood rushing and the strong heart of the Temerian beating fast.

“How long…?” Roche managed in between kisses, holding on firmly to Geralt’s body.

“You don’t want to know,” Geralt replied, face heating up in self-revelation and gratification that this was something he’d seemingly denied himself for too long. Never had his thoughts traveled this far; never though had something like this felt so natural to him, so customary. He reveled in the feel of Roche’s body against his, his thoroughly kissed and slightly swollen lips on his and the breaths they shared now that they confessed to each other. His head felt pleasantly light, his whole body thrumming with arousal.

They kissed again, shuffling a bit towards the bed and Geralt let himself fall backwards onto it, dragging Roche onto his body and down with him. He spread his legs under the Temerian, who gasped at the sudden intense contact of their crotches through their clothing.

Geralt, trying a smirk which changed to a helpless gasp, whispered, “Come on, _move_ ,” and closed his arms in a tight embrace, kissing Roche with renewed vigor. His thoughts were fuzzy, save for the things the other was doing to him, especially with his wickedly agile tongue.

_Roche… gods, more…_

“Ah, yes… Geralt,” Roche hissed when the Witcher’s hands slid down again to his arse and clutched rather firmly to the man’s toned muscle. He started to move against the body of the Witcher, rubbing his erection on Geralt’s, spurred on by the soft sounds the other man was making and the hot breaths tingling over his neck. He groaned at the feel of Geralt underneath him, his strong hands pulling him in, encouraging his movements between trembling legs.

“Roche, I, it’s not enough, can I…,” Geralt’s hands wandered from Roche’s behind to the front of the commander’s trousers with rather low hesitation, squeezing between them, and Roche lifted himself up a little bit so that the Witcher could loosen the cord at the waistband and open his trousers in one quivery motion.

When Geralt’s hand pushed into Roche’s undergarments, feeling the hot, moist flesh of his erection for the first time, both men could not hold back a groan.

“Ah, Geralt, gods… here, let me…” Roche braced himself on one arm, fiddled with the latch of the Witcher’s trousers, shoving them down a bit, so that their heated flesh met and the Temerian’s strong hand joined Geralt’s hand on his cock to press them both together in a firm grip.

Feeling his cock on the hardened member of the other, he started jerking them both in a slow, but deliberate motion.

“Ahh, Roche, _yes_ , that’s it…” Geralt moaned, his flush now reaching down to his chest, skin glistening with a faint sheen of sweat.

“Geralt… ah, ah, you feel – “, Roche started, interrupted by a heavy shudder and a low groan, “– gods, you feel so good.”

Geralt hissed, his other hand steadying on Roche’s arse, and biting on the skin of his shoulder, he kissed the other’s neck and nudged his head to the side to find his lips in a proper kiss again.

Roche’s cock felt hot and hard against his, but also silky smooth and the friction coming from their movement and from the man’s hand was slowly but surely driving him insane. Their kisses changed to breathless licks and bites, both clinging to each other if they’d possibly drowned otherwise.

Geralt gasped as he heard Roche’s moans becoming more urgent, the feel of their cocks becoming slicker with the second. His mind was befuddled, the tension building inside him to a nearly critical level. He’d never thought this would prove so good, that Roche would one day drive him mad with lust in earnest.

“Ah, Geralt, I, I’m…” Roche groaned, his cock growing harder still against Geralt’s own, slick cock, “I think I cannot hold myself back any longer…”

“Roche, yes, yes…ah, I’m -, hahh,” Geralt screwed his eyes shut, and with a rumbled moan, came onto their joint hands. His orgasm swept him away completely, his vision fizzed with white sparks, his cock giving spurt after spurt until the shocks started to subside at last.

When the Witcher opened his eyes, he just saw the Temerian clench his teeth and with a full body jerk, he also came, white pearly liquid splashing onto Geralt’s stomach.

“Geralt, haahh… _yes_ ,” Roche hissed, captured in his own crescendo of lust, shudders wracking through him before he had to lower himself with a profound groan onto the Witcher.

Chest heaving with deep breaths and heart racing, Roche slid slowly to the side, still staying close to Geralt. He fetched the edge of the sheet off the side of the bed to clean them both from the mess they made, gently wiping over Geralt’s stomach and then sliding down his own.

Geralt watched Roche intently, his whole body still thrumming with hormones. He felt very alive, nerve endings buzzing softly. When Roche leaned away briefly to discard the sheet onto the floor, he let his gaze roam over the man’s body languidly. Roche’s skin was faintly tanned, silvery and pale red scars were scattered over his toned body. The faint sheen of sweat made the curve of his back look so enticing that Geralt could not stop himself from sliding his hand down and dragging Roche towards him again.

Roche graced him with a rather amused smirk and turned willingly into Geralt’s embrace.

“Geralt,” Roche sighed after a minute or two, “I know this kills the moment, but I assume we should be going?”

Geralt pressed his face into the crook of Roche’s neck to pull the skin gently between his teeth, “Accepted, my dear Roche…” He worried the skin further and then licked over the bite. Roche, who appeared to have been trying to get up, shivered and moaned weakly. The Witcher nudged up and pressed a kiss to Roche’s lips. When Roche gave in, Geralt’s tongue pressed into his mouth and their kiss became deeper and heated again. Although the urgency of before seemed to have abated a bit, the intensity and intent with which both were clinging to each other had not lessened.

When they broke apart to gasp for air, Roche pressed his forehead to Geralt with closed eyes.

“I mean it, Geralt… come on.”

The Witcher chuckled, and after they detangled themselves, managed to get up after the commander. He fixed his clothing and after retrieving his garments from the floor and redressing, stretched his back and arms briefly. Roche was still fixating the leather straps of his garments and readjusting his shoulder belts before he gathered his crossbow and sword.

_Gods… I cannot take my hands off him…_

Geralt sighed when he stepped in closer again.

“Roche,” he started, pulling the other against his body, “you know, what this… is, for me? What _you_ are, to me?”

Roche looked up into Geralt’s eyes, searching his face. Geralt let him see whatever he wanted to find there; it wasn’t as if his prior actions hadn’t long betrayed him anyway. Roche’s gaze softened, he averted his eyes to the Witcher’s chest and a slight flush on top of his cheeks and his red ears indicated his flustered state even further. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, “I know. It’s the same for me, actually,” he managed with a half contained grin. He grabbed his chaperon off the table, fixed it to his head under Geralt’s hungry stare and hid his pinked ears again.

_I wonder if I can make you blush more often._

Geralt forced the Temerian’s chin up very gently to press a chaste kiss to Roche’s lips. He smiled, and Roche huffed pleasantly into the hug which followed.

After a few moments in solitude, they opened the door of the room quietly, and when there was no one in the corridor, made their way out.

Outside, when they stood in the cool air, still warmed thoroughly from the house, Geralt challenged Roche with a grin and a soft push to his rips. “Well, commander, when’s the next time you think you could find the time for some sparring?”

Roche laughed. “I still have to manage some operations in Novigrad the next few days.”

Geralt snorted briefly.

“Let’s say, come find me with my men in four days?” Roche offered.

“Sounds good,” Geralt smiled slyly. “I see you then.”

Geralt was just about to leave and make his way over to the stables, when Roche blocked him and insinuated himself in his way with a searing kiss, all teeth and tongue. Geralt kissed him back with equal vigor, crushed him in another embrace and, with a nod and a smile, detached himself at last to reluctantly move on with his journey.

He would see Roche again in a few days, no need to get sentimental now. Still, when he left on the back of his horse, his thoughts were already back with the Temerian. He shook his head. 

_And I’ve never seen that coming…_

He did not prevent the silly grin which bloomed on his features. Replaying the events of the night in his head, he basked in the warm, fluttery feeling in his gut and hoped he would make it back in time to meet Roche again soon.

**Author's Note:**

> I got to know the Witcher 3: Wild Hunt before the Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings, so even as Roche struck me as a memorable character in 3, his presence in 2 managed to just completely blow me away. Their shared history and loyalty have impressed me so much that I decided to give them a try myself.
> 
> Title is from the album “Armistice” by the band Mutemath. Check them out!


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